Can I Get an Amen?
by roboticdragons
Summary: Sammy Lawrence's passion was music, it swirled round his head, guiding his life with its endless melodies and tunes. /Just my interpretation of Sammy Lawrence and how he ended up like he is in Chapter Two. Contains Chp 2 spoilers. (Also why does Sammy not have a character tag?)


Ever since he'd been a child, music was his passion, his motivation. He went through school, got good grades, drifting through life with the gentle flow of music guiding him, showing him the way. He learnt many different instruments and techniques, and adored all of them. But his favourite instrument was the piano. There was just something about it, something about the contrast between the quick soft notes coming from his fingers ghosting over the keys, and the crashing, drawn out, powerful sounds from putting his entire heart and soul into the tune. All of it was beautiful, and Sammy relished in mastering the piano, gaining control over this soft yet powerful beast.

No matter how much he loved music, he definitely could admit that the business had its challenges. Finding enough work to live was difficult, with him taking small freelance jobs like composing short jingles for trailers. It was hard, but it was his passion, and he much preferred it to a silent office job with silent friends and a silent life. And so he settled into a rhythm of short jobs, barely paid rents, and the eternal music dancing through his head. It was difficult, but it was enough, and it didn't change much.

Until he met young animator, Joey Drew.

They first met at a bar. Two creative people struggling through life, determined to cling to their arts to the end rather than join the common folk milling about in their quiet, still lives. It was at that small bar where they began chatting, first about unimportant things like jobs and weather, but soon moving on to art and pictures and the power of the piano and the illusion of animation. Then Joey casually mentioned a studio he was starting up, 'Sillyvision'. Their first few shorts had gained some attention, but they were missing a fairly important part: music.

And that was that. Acquaintances became co-workers and co-workers bordered on friends. There, in the dark music studio surrounded by musicians, instruments and recording equipment, was everything Sammy had dreamed of. His utopia. Sure, the deadlines were tight and the co-workers were a bit eccentric, but every job had its downside. Those few months, those were perfect.

Of course, all good things must come to an end.

Sammy's utopia was shattered by the very same man who created it.

Whispers started spreading round the music department, corrupting Sammy's beautiful music with dark demonic thoughts. The whispers were of Joey, and everything he was doing. Talk of his decreasing sanity and of strange blueprints scattered around the office. Slowly, changes began to occur. The pipes, the pumps, the switches all around. All of it lead to that cursed structure, the ink machine. Cartoons were rushed, and even Sammy could admit that his music wasn't what it had been, generic and basic and whatever he could churn out in time. He became more and more bitter, and internally, more and more scared. Something was going on that stirred a dark feeling deep in his soul.

Then Joey's actions went from annoying and weird to downright disturbing. He asked everyone to 'donate' things from their office, from Sammy he got a vinyl record. The animator's ranting grew more and more disturbed, and occasionally Sammy caught snatches of Joey yelling, yelling about the divine and the demonic. Chatter went from weirded out gossip to scared whispers about what would happen to the studio, what would happen to them. Sammy grew angrier, snapping at Wally and spending ages in his office. The studio was growing darker and darker from the ink dripping from the ceiling and leaking through the floor. The tension tightened like a violin string.

And when you stretch a string too far, it snaps.

There was yelling, so much angry yelling. And then the yelling was accompanied by the whirring of a machine, and the sloshing of ink.

Then the yells turned to screams. Screams of pain and screams of terror. And above it all, before his senses were flooded completely with ink, Sammy heard one of his familiar tunes, and the eternally smiling face of the demon.

When he awoke there was nothing but pain. He screamed for while, hearing his agony rebound through the studio, but never hearing a soul respond. The screams turned to whimpers, and those whimpers turned to mutters. The studio was somehow always changing, pentagrams and messages splattering themselves across the wall. The one thing that never changed, always stayed the same was the smiling face of the demon. That was all he had to cling onto. His music couldn't provide the same protection, as his inky appendages couldn't quite work the instruments. Many he forgot, but one he mourned the loss of was his piano playing. He wondered if he would never again hear the soft yet powerful notes, if he was to be forever trapped in this silent, inky abyss.

Even the fond memories of the piano began to fade, until Sammy felt no attachment nor sentiment towards the old worn instrument. Instead, his adoration of soft combining with power was focused on another being. One that could drift across the studio on his chariot of ink, but could also rip apart anything with ease. The one thing he thought of now was the demo - no, the savoir, and the ways he could please him. That was all that mattered in this dark, quiet hell.

Can I get an amen? 


End file.
